The first time Price met {{user}}, he told himself it was a mistake. But mistakes weren’t supposed to haunt you like this, weren’t supposed to taste like fire and honey, weren’t supposed to crawl under your skin until part of you. Yet here you were, standing in front of him, laughing through a faint haze of smoke curling from your lips, your voice low and teasing in a way that made him hate himself.

“You’re awfully quiet, Captain,” you said, your words slicing through the silence. “What’s wrong? Finally realized you’re in too deep?”

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening as he looked away. You stepped closer, feeling the heat radiating off you, the storm in your eyes daring him to meet your gaze. But he couldn’t. He shouldn’t. Not when he knew where this always ended—two bodies tangled in the dark, filling the void with something fleeting.

“You can leave, you know,” you said softly but sharply. “Walk out that door and never come back. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Don’t,” he muttered, the word heavy with warning.

“Don’t what?” you snapped, anger flashing across your face. “Don’t remind you that you keep coming back? Or that you promised me something more?”

He clenched his fists, guilt weighing him down like the endless seas he’d crossed. “I never promised you anything,” he said, voice low and ragged.

Your laugh was bitter, cutting through him. “No, you didn’t. But you look at me like I’m the only thing keeping you from sinking.”

He wanted to argue, to tell you that you didn’t understand his ghosts. But you were right—he was drowning, and that terrified him.

“Why do you keep running, Price?” you asked, your voice breaking. “Why do you come back if you’ll leave me drowning every time?”

He stared at you, words trapped in his throat. He couldn’t tell you he was poison, that you deserved better than the hollow shell before you. But letting go was just as impossible.

“I’m not what you need,” he said finally, the words tasting like ash.

“And you think I care?” you shot back, stepping closer. “I don’t need perfect.”